


File For Reference

by Nagaem_C



Series: The Sewing Box: Needles and Pins One-Shots [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Memory Alteration, Mind Palace, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaem_C/pseuds/Nagaem_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over their time together, Sherlock had become well-versed in reading that expressive face, giving it a level of attention he lavished upon no one else. It provided endless variety, a world of minutiae to be discovered in each muscle and line—a window into the incredible, admirable heart of John Watson.</p><p> <br/><b>(Takes place during Chapter 21-23 of A Thread To Hold; not a stand-alone)</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	File For Reference

**Author's Note:**

> This begins near the end of Chapter 21 of A Thread to Hold, in which Sherlock and John meet Brewster at the Willis Tower in downtown Chicago to make arrangements for the evening:
> 
>      A hand on his shoulder interrupted his reverie, and then Sherlock stood at his side, now alone with him in the glass enclosure. Looking down, John was slightly more discomfited to see his friend's feet floating over the city than his own.
> 
>      "It's settled. We'll meet Brewster at eight o'clock tonight." The deep voice paused. "Are you all right?"

  
**File For Reference**  
 _1 January 2015_

.

 

Graham Brewster was still as unrelentingly pleasant as ever. It was _tiresome._

Sherlock covered a sigh as he paced the smiling older man, strolling slowly with him past the display walls of historical photographs. Brewster paused to gaze at every single one, clasping his hands over his round belly. _He must have seen all of these exhibits dozens of times, he's been bringing his daughter here since she was in kindergarten,_ thought the detective, a touch sourly. He wasn't in the mood to socialise, but this meeting was the perfect expedient solution to his current needs. Of course Brewster felt obligated to help him today; that he would do so was a foregone conclusion. Sherlock simply needed to play his cards right, to make that happen...and to begin with, that would mean allowing the man his time to chat.

Brewster began their conversation casually. "So, I saw the news reports online, back in June: alive and kicking." He turned away from a poster depicting the construction of the skyscraper in which they stood, and looked up at Sherlock as if he expected some sort of heartwarming story.

"Oh, yes?" Sherlock plastered what he considered to be an encouraging smile across his face. _Lay it on thick,_ he reminded himself, _but don't take it too far over the top. He must remain disinclined to recall any less sociable aspects of my behaviour._ "Most Americans don't pay attention to those sorts of news stories out of England."

"Most Americans haven't had a famous and supposedly dead detective use their apartment as a base of operations for a whole week, either. 'Course I look you up, every now and then."

"Hm. Fair enough, I suppose."

They walked a few steps further in silence.

"And that's your Doctor Watson, huh? He's different than I expected."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I saw the photos online, naturally, but they don't do him justice at all."

Sherlock hummed in interest. "How do you mean?"

"Well, he's a touch taller than he looks in the photos, for one thing. And he seems very kind, which I'd expect of course, but underneath he's a force of nature, isn't he?"

He stopped short, not sure how to respond. "Er."

Brewster gave a hearty laugh and moved on to the next exhibit.

 _The one man in America to whom I actually gave my name, and he's somehow even more perceptive than I recalled,_ thought Sherlock. He studied Brewster's cheerful profile, and his mind was drawn back to the wet, dreary spring of 2013, when the detective had first taken notice of him.

The incessant April rain had spattered unheeded off the man's downcast bald head; he'd clearly broadcast frustrated fear in the slump of his thick shoulders, and despair in the way he'd plodded aimlessly along the city sidewalk. From the hidden vantage point of an alleyway fire escape, Sherlock—then "William Harris"—had peered down through folding binoculars, deducing his grandbaby's age in the stained shoulder of his shirt, his place of employment from the pin on his collar, and the reach of his position in his shoes and trouser cuffs. Within seconds, he'd determined that this gentleman provided the perfect target: someone open to suggestion, anxious for assistance, and empowered with access to exactly what he needed...and less than two hours later he'd arranged for his path to cross Brewster's, with precise timing engineered to increase the odds that the man would present his problem to a sympathetic stranger.

Today's demurral in front of John had been no lie: it had been almost depressingly easy to search out the information necessary to defend Jacqui's custody of her eleven month old son. In a mere matter of hours, he had been able to present Mr Brewster with the properly incriminating evidence against the young thug who threatened her, and detailed instructions on exactly how and when to utilise it. _'The effort of a moment,'_ indeed, Sherlock mused. _An effort that earned me access to the blueprints for the Crain Communication tower, and safe shelter for days while I planned the takedown of Karl Verrone and the populous Chicago leg of Moriarty's operation..._

"It took you another whole year, then? Dealing with those people?"

Sherlock returned his attention to the present day, and the man in front of him. He frowned. "Thirteen and a half months. To be precise."

"Must have been hard on you. And your friend."

Again, the younger man found himself speechless; he narrowed his eyes at Brewster, but was unable to deduce any motive beyond straightforward empathy. He racked his brain for some suitable response that wouldn't tread too heavily on messy sentiment; eventually he simply managed, "...Yes."

 

.

 

They turned at the rear of the exhibit space, and began to make their way back towards the observation deck area. As they strolled along, Sherlock looked over to surreptitiously gauge the degree of comfort in Brewster's features. _One more personal query should provide the right amount of preparation for my request..._ "I noticed your daughter has returned to school. I presume she's getting along well?"

The older man's eyes lit up with pleasure, and he immediately launched into a torrent of information that interested Sherlock not in the least. He smiled, and nodded at appropriate moments, but his mind wandered to the events that had brought him to take the decided risk of trust in Graham Brewster.

At the start of their brief association, "Harris" had held his new acquaintance at a healthy distance; however, Verrone's lieutenant had caught wind of an unfortunate rumour, and downtown Chicago had quickly become exponentially less safe. The unique nature of his circumstances had required that he impose further upon the man; Brewster's benevolent sociability, at first seeming so incredibly insipid, had provided a dangerously tantalising taste of certain sorely missed comforts. It seemed only fitting, somehow, that the first man in nearly two years to press Sherlock to eat and sleep, and to bandage wounds he could not reach, should be given the scant favour of knowing whom he had helped.

After his risky mission had been finally accomplished and the time had come to move on—with newly coloured hair and the alias of "Scott Seward"—he hadn't reminisced upon the host he'd left. Had Anna not required assistance, he would not be here; he might not have revisited the events of that week at all, beyond the unpleasant wakings with _Moscow, Chicago, Manila, Johannesburg_ a sour, astringent taste in his mouth that repeatedly resisted deletion. Still...to think that in the months since, this person and his family had spared thoughts for his well-being...

Shaking himself back into the present, Sherlock returned his focus to the words issuing from Brewster's lips, just in time to provide an adequately engaged response to the man's recitation of his family news.

"Yes, that must have made you proud," he murmured, glancing past the portly man's shoulder to fix John's location in his peripheral awareness.

"Damn right it did. Jacqui never thought she'd get to go back to school, let alone make top grades her whole freshman year of college while raising Devon. I'm thrilled for my baby girl," Brewster enthused, half-turning to smile in the same direction as the detective's gaze: the young woman stood in one of the observation ledges, her child seated on her hip, apparently pointing out various city landmarks below to the politely interested army doctor.

"So," said Sherlock, "shall I list off the information we require? We'd hate to impose too long upon your outing, this fine afternoon." He stretched his mouth into a wide, close-lipped grin as the older man turned to face him once more.

"Certainly, Mr Holmes; as I said on the phone earlier, I'm happy to help if I can. This doesn't have to do with that nastiness from before, does it? Thought you said that was all handled, here in town anyway, before you bleached your hair in my sink and ran off."

"Not at all; that's all over and done with. What I'm after now pertains to a completely different group of criminals that appear to be meeting somewhere locally. I believe your company still handles document storage for Farriman Consulting, yes? I need access to the warehouse. Tonight, if at all possible."

Brewster's affable, kindly expression slipped just a bit, and his eyes flickered to one side.

_Damn, I'm losing his confidence. He's not desperate for help now, he'll be more careful of taking risks at his workplace. Play up the human element!_

Dipping his head towards the other man in a conspiratorial gesture, but keeping a heartfelt expression on his face, Sherlock continued, "This investigation is in the interest of a friend of ours; she's been drawn against her will into the matter of a recent murder in Bridgeport, and I have reason to believe her safety is at issue. The more quickly I can track down the group behind this, the better."

 _There, that's more like it,_ he thought, watching Brewster consider his words. It was, of course, an overstatement; Sherlock didn't truly believe that Anna had anything to worry about. Paulos was now in custody; the evidence Sherlock had seen indicated that he was clearly the more intelligent of Crannock's pair of incompetent hired hands, and that wasn't saying much at all. Furthermore, the circumstances that had led to the gallery owner's death were obviously linked to Anna only tangentially, through the possibility that scaring her might have brought Drew Hardwick out of the woodwork. No, the only thing to be concerned with was tracking down Crannock himself, and doing so quickly: Detective Garvey's investigation would no doubt be bumbling and inept enough to send Teufel Der Kunst into hiding.

"Oh. Oh, my lordy. Well, that's certainly..." The man's eyes were wide, and he wrung his hands in an unconscious gesture of concern. "Of course, of course I can get you the access. Just, er, give me some time to figure out the arrangements. Would tonight at eight be okay?"

"Yes, that will do nicely, Mr Brewster. I'm very grateful. Here, I'll make that list for you." He slipped a pen and a small pad from his breast pocket, flipping the cover open briskly and jotting down a listing of the construction projects for which he would require plans.

 

.

 

After dismissing the older man with a few more empty pleasantries, Sherlock moved across the room, sidestepping neatly around the few clumped groups of tourists. He saw Jacqui turning away from the glass, just as he approached; she looked up from whatever instruction she was giving her son, and offered him a shy half-smile and nod before taking the boy's hand and leading him away. Sherlock was grateful she didn't stop to talk to him; he wasn't sure he had it in him to attempt further conversation, after having endured so much of Brewster's idle chat.

Stepping forward silently, Sherlock took up the space she had vacated in the observation enclosure: the glass box jutted out over a metre from the side of the skyscraper, creating an invisible ledge that floated the observer's feet over the city at a height of 412 metres. The effect was, admittedly, striking. He immediately found himself running compulsive calculations in his mind—judging the likely windspeed at this height, and the projected arc of a hypothetical falling object—but this occupied him for only a second or so. The presence to his left quickly commanded his full attention.

John Watson gazed out over the city, his eyes remote. Sherlock's sudden proximity failed to break his intense concentration: the detective glanced out to follow the direction of his gaze, and saw nothing of great interest to draw such scrutiny. No—what the man was watching must be something else, some _interior_ landscape.

Sherlock turned toward his companion, gladly taking the offered opportunity to study the planes and angles of his best friend's face in thought. As he watched, he became aware of slight movements, ripples of subtle expression that passed gently over John's features, one after another.

 _There, I recognize that one: pain._ Early afternoon sunshine angled across the soft crease in John's forehead as it deepened.

He noted a flickering heat in the dark blue eyes, next. _Desire, indubitably._

Another shift: _That small twitch of the eyebrow is a clear marker of confusion._ He quickly called up a series of mental images and compared them to what he saw before him, like flashcards in a matching game, and confirmed the observation.

 _But wait, that movement in the cheek indicates gratitude...and now, look, just there in the corner of his lips—envy? Of what?_ Sherlock felt a small frown furrow his own brow.

Over their time together, Sherlock had become well-versed in reading that expressive face, giving it a level of attention he lavished upon no one else. It provided endless variety, a world of minutiae to be discovered in each muscle and line—a window into the incredible, admirable heart of John Watson. He had scrutinised that face under every circumstance he'd been able to feasibly observe or arrange: at meals, napping in his armchair, tired from work and fresh from the shower, before dates with various women—and often during them, as Sherlock couldn't resist a little fieldwork now and again—and he'd noted and collated each infinitesimal variation of expression with great care.

Multiple rooms of his Mind Palace were devoted wholly to the study and classification of John's emotions; charts and diagrams plotted the variant subsets, their relative frequency and their correlations to various types of stimuli. File upon file, neat polished cabinets stacked to the coffered ceilings in his imagination, held the visual evidence of each unique twitch of his nose and clench of his hands, each pursing of his thin lips. Still further leather-bound folios rested on stands, filled with notations on every instance when Sherlock had seen John conceal his usual tells beneath the commanding strength of his soldier's demeanor, or otherwise hide his state of mind from sight...and then, of course, there were the audio references. These were kept, rather fancifully, in a long bank of small labelled apothecary drawers, each containing a memorable vocal cue or snippet...all except for one _particular_ phone call, which rested in its entirety within a small, securely locked metal box.

Through careful investigation and patient effort, Sherlock had assembled a collated database that expanded and self-referenced continuously with each passing day in his companion's presence. From the very beginning, long before sentiment had begun to encroach so rudely upon his thoughts, this man—flatmate, colleague, friend—had presented puzzles within puzzles; one day, he hoped, some of the answers might make themselves clear at last.

Now, however, Sherlock found himself examining the kind, weathered features of his partner with trepidation. _I've been standing here for two minutes, and I've seen no less than ten separate emotional states represented!_ Granted, the physical signs were minimal in this case, and there was a _slight_ chance his observations were off; but he was fairly sure of himself in this, his own constructed science. He'd most certainly seen the echoes of regret, delight, sadness, and anger... _How?_

The matching up of names and descriptions to the subtle tells John exhibited was nothing too difficult, not after having spent so long in continual study. But, although Sherlock had, as always, succeeded in distinguishing and defining John's emotions, true understanding remained frustratingly out of reach.

_All these feelings, both positive and negative, many in direct contradiction to one another...but why is John experiencing them? And why all at once? HOW all at once?_

Even as his analytical mind worked to quickly label and file away snapshots of the expressions, Sherlock found himself significantly distressed at the idea of experiencing so many conflicting sentiments at one time. Never mind that he had, of course, experienced simultaneous contradictory emotions himself, quite frequently of late. It was a truly uncomfortable state of being: one that he invariably ignored, or shoved into the deeper recesses of his head. _Irrelevant as a comparison, at any rate, except for its use in extrapolation. If I feel intense discomfort at two concurrent states—and three was an experience I hope never to repeat—one shudders to think how awful ten must be!_

This worrying thought compelled him to break the spell of silence. Shifting his weight unconsciously onto the balls of his feet, he reached out and placed a gentle hand upon his friend's shoulder.

John snapped his gaze back into focus at the contact, and he looked down as if realising all over again that he stood on a glass floor, one hundred and three stories up. Sherlock meant to speak at once, but he was still watching that amazing, intriguing face—and it was shifting more clearly now as John registered his presence, changing magnificently and _frightfully._

Covering a slight tremble as he returned his hand to his side, Sherlock forced words past suddenly uncooperative lips. "It's settled. We'll meet Brewster at eight o'clock tonight."

In the moment of silence that followed this statement, the detective's mind whirled with questions. John's eyes were still fixed upon the sight of their two pairs of feet on the glass, and that brought up one more sudden doubt. _Perhaps holding this meeting at such a great height was ill-advised?_

"Are you all right?" he inquired next. It wasn't really a fit expression of the things Sherlock really wanted to ask, but somehow the only appropriate one. There had been a very limited number of suitable opportunities over the years for him to truly ask John to explain, and he knew from experience that it was considered Not Good to pry, in his typical analytical fashion, when his flatmate was actually experiencing the negative emotions in question.

John lifted his eyes, and appeared to come immediately to some sort of resolution. Before Sherlock could react, he brought a hand up and cupped it at the back of the taller man's neck, tugging him abruptly forwards.

_What—_

It was over in a split-second; a tiny, chaste kiss pecked into the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and then John let go and pulled back to resume eye contact. He dropped his hand to rest flat on Sherlock's lapel for a few seconds more.

"I'm okay," said John, and he smiled, sending the sleuth's mind from its startled stillness into overdrive once again.

 _These cues indicate happiness, peace, even excitement. But, the unpleasant emotions I witnessed, just moments ago...?_ Sherlock's jaw gaped briefly open before he straightened, glancing around as he collected himself. The developments of the previous evening were significant, certainly—but considering their shared history, public display of affection was _quite_ unexpected.

Pursing his lips, he blinked twice. "Lunch?"

John checked his watch and nodded. "Yeah, okay."

They moved together away from the dizzying view, and strode silently to the lifts.

 

.

 

 _What have I gotten myself into?_ wondered Sherlock, dazed.

He sat in the front window booth of a small delicatessen, his back to the wall, letting his gaze wander over the old, framed photographs adorning the walls as John stood in line to order. The glass at his left side was badly insulated; it threw a cool breeze across his left hand and up into the sleeve of his coat. The proprietors of the establishment seemed to be compensating for inadequate glazing by keeping their heat on high blast: he was torn between overheating in his coat and shivering, but he paid it little mind. It was a fitting physical sensation to match the off-kilter state of his thoughts.

"Here," John said, appearing at the booth and proffering a cup of coffee. He took it with a quiet nod of thanks.

John deposited his own mug on the table, then returned to the counter to wait for his sandwich and crisps. This time, Sherlock's eyes followed him across the deli, watching his friend's steady, measured stride and the perfect balanced ease of his stance, the alert openness of his face in profile—and, incidentally, the immediately receptive reaction of the young woman behind the counter. She smiled over the register at John, and her body language shifted in subtle invitation as she casually brushed a lock of fine blonde hair away from her not unattractive face.

An alien sensation rose up within him in tandem with that observation, and he wondered if he'd made some sort of involuntary noise at it—for at that very moment, as if summoned, John turned his head and threw Sherlock a small, knowing smile and a wink before returning his attention to the nonchalant study of the menu board. He'd clasped his hands loosely behind his back, and was idly tapping the fingers of his left hand against the back of his right in a slow and patient rhythm; it only served to draw his partner's attention all the more to the composed confidence he exuded in his parade rest posture, and the coiled, impressive strength Sherlock knew resided in that compact frame.

Sherlock dragged his eyes away from the man with some effort, closing them as he brought the steaming coffee mug to his lips. _If John is so unselfconscious about showing affection in public, it's a definite signal that he is on a path leading to much more physical interaction. How could I have been so stupid? I've been blinded by my own unfamiliar obsession to the obvious fact that of course, John would expect sex. Of course he would; it's been one of the most evident driving forces in all the relationships he's pursued, ever since I've known him!_

The concept of sex, in any of its various forms, had been far less threatening when Sherlock could still consider the entire situation as an unlikely hypothetical. Even when it had appeared his friend would be coming around at any moment—early in the twelve week period following his confession during the forged weapons case, before John's prolonged silence on the subject had begun to instill doubts regarding the eventual outcome—it had been easy to gloss over the concept. After all, Sherlock wasn't a virgin, whatever cutting insinuations his brother insisted upon making at his expense. Victor and Emmeline had been the experimental baseline he'd required, years ago, and although none of the activities he had undertaken with either of them had been exactly _enjoyable_ for him—slightly less so, in the case of Emmeline—he was confident that he could work through the distraction of physicality enough to participate, and satisfy that requirement of a relationship. He didn't need to delight in it, simply to endure and allow it, assuming it came to that. Or so he'd thought.

But now, the hypothesis of his reluctant sentiment had become sudden reality, and with it came an influx of sensation and emotion that was nearly overwhelming. _Just from a kiss!_ Sherlock held a large sip of hot coffee on his tongue, letting the sweet bitterness suffuse his mouth as he allowed his thoughts to skitter back to the sparking, slow confusion of the night before. _How could I possibly survive the onslaught of more than this?_ As it was, the missing time in his mind stood testament to the fact that he was woefully unprepared to meet the needs of John Watson.

 

.

 

"Okay there?"

Sherlock opened his eyes to meet John's concerned gaze. Swallowing the mouthful of coffee, now only lukewarm against his throat, he lowered the mug he still held before his face. "Yes."

"Good," John replied easily, shifting his attention to the Reuben sandwich on his red plastic luncheon tray. As he picked it up and took the first bite, the tangy aroma of sauerkraut and Russian dressing drifted across the booth; Sherlock wrinkled his nose and turned to stare out the window.

After a minute of silence, the doctor spoke again, muffled slightly as he swallowed. "You should have ordered something, you know."

"I had something earlier."

"Right." John's tone suggested he didn't quite believe the dismissive statement, but he didn't press the point.

 _I suppose tea at Anna's doesn't exactly count, does it?_ Sherlock made a mental note to consume something before the end of the day, to appease the man. He was certain the opportunity would arise before their evening's meeting with Brewster; they would, after all, need to reconvene with Greg and Anna in advance of it. Not immediately, though. He wanted to give Anna as much of the day as possible to herself, in recompense for imposing upon her during the night. As well, he found himself embarrassed at the thought of being back in her presence so soon, knowing what she now knew.

 

.

 

Back out on the sidewalk, with the brisk air whipping about his face, Sherlock felt a sudden determination to regain his equilibrium. All this emotional upheaval was unfamiliar territory, and on top of that, it was happening in Chicago, of all places. _It's no wonder I'm off-balance,_ he mused, looking up and down the street. _Best do something about that._

John looked much more himself now that he'd eaten; they'd both been quiet for much of his meal, wrapped up in their own thoughts, but it seemed to have been a more restorative period for the doctor than it had been for the detective. He stepped out at Sherlock's heels and looked up to him expectantly, every economical motion of his body communicating attention and eagerness for action.

A need coalesced in Sherlock's mind, and he made a quick decision. "Would you be amenable to walking awhile?"

The idea apparently took his friend by surprise, but he agreed almost immediately, with a small shrug. "All right, whatever you like."

Sherlock led them east on Jackson until the cumbersome, bulky base of the Monadnock building rose up on their right; pausing at the corner, he picked out the remembered image of the dark-haired gangster who'd hidden in the shadow of those nearly two-metre-thick walls, twenty months before. He visualised the outline of the man, the faint glint from the streetlights that had reflected just enough off the knife he'd held to warn of his presence in time; and then, tilting his head just slightly, he brought John Watson into his frame of view—afternoon sunlight tipping his hair with white-gold as he craned his neck up at the unique shape of the brown brick skyscraper, a content smile playing across his lips. A moment's concentration, and the edges of the murderer blurred and smeared away into the dark bricks like smudged chalk; the shadows of the rainy midnight scene were replaced by this bright winter's day.

With a small, satisfied nod, Sherlock turned north and strode purposefully ahead. He had a route in mind that would take them directly past a number of locations where a similar treatment would be beneficial. The most sharp-edged memories of the time he'd spent tracking Verrone's activities could be filed down, today, reduced to smooth washes of colour tinted by John's smile. _This could work,_ Sherlock thought, pleased at the unexpected brilliance of his idea.

He took a mental snapshot of John tying his shoe before the mouth of the alley where he'd first attempted to lose the tail Verrone had placed on him. A few blocks later, John checked his reflection in the window of the same State Street boutique Sherlock had ducked into in desperation, when the pair of musclebound men had failed to be deceived by his ploy.

For all that it had been devised on the fly, the process seemed to be working _perfectly._

 

.

 

Continuing northward towards the river, Sherlock considered what other stops might need to be made on this impromptu memory-altering tour. _I can't employ this strategy at Crain Tower, of course...but my actual confrontation with Verrone seems less important than these other items, somehow. Odd..._

As they approached the Chicago Theatre he paused briefly, recalling that Monk's Pub lay only four blocks west. _Should I?_

He was staring across the street at the brightly coloured marquee, but in his head the memory of that pub sprang up in full force instead, noisy and dim: "Harris" perched on a stool next to the weary, nervous Brewster, and listened to the man's rough and honest voice.

_"You just don't know, man, you can't understand what you're missing. But then there's suddenly someone in your life to live for, who wasn't there before...and damned if you can imagine how you ever thought you were getting along at all, without him. The thought of losing him, it's worse than death..."_

Brewster had, of course, been speaking of the dubious pleasure of being a new grandparent, and the fear of losing custody of the child. But those words had resonated with Sherlock at the time, pulling a sympathetic vibration from his core that had severely shaken the carefully constructed mask of his alias. He suddenly remembered—more clearly than he expected to—how tightly he'd gripped the pint glass between his palms, and how his voice had cracked even as he'd kicked himself firmly and unforgivingly back into character.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?"

He froze the memory in a still frame as John's incongruous voice pushed warmly into the scene. Surprising himself in the next instant, Sherlock wrapped the pub up safely and filed it away with deliberate care, before turning back to his friend in the present.

"Overwriting," he answered, distracted.

John lifted a brow, shifting weight onto his heels as he processed the response. "That's a new one. Care to explain?"

"Not particularly." Frowning at the improbable line he had apparently drawn inside his mind, Sherlock pivoted away and continued toward the bridge, his strides lengthening as he went.

He barely registered the response behind him, beyond a vague sense that, without a doubt, John would follow; his thoughts were spinning madly once again, railing in shocked confusion against the dichotomous treatment he'd apparently chosen to give the events of his travels. _Wrong, all wrong! Why would I save that?_

He saw, now, what he hadn't been willing to admit to himself on earlier reflection: he hadn't broken his alias with Brewster purely because the man had earned his eventual respect. _I'd slipped, I'd been losing control of myself almost from the beginning!_ That instability had been a weakness that had nearly crippled him, thrown him out of his comfort zone just when things had begun to go sideways. He'd been forced to take far more of the man's support than he'd intended, and he could only be thankful that Brewster was one of those rare, trustworthy people for whom generosity and fairness came easily.

Sherlock covered the remaining two blocks to the river at a fast pace, so wrapped in his consternation that he failed to fully discern his surroundings until he came up hard against the stone railing at the beginning of the bridge's pedestrian walkway. With a startled huff of breath, he leaned on his forearms out over the barrier, bracing one foot between the bulbous carved balusters, and stared out over the river as he tried to reorder himself.

All it had taken was one external voice to bring his thoughts of John to the surface, and a whirlwind, a _firestorm_ of unwanted emotion had begun within him that was anathema to the accomplishment of his goals. And then, when things had begun to go wrong—as they so often had, in so many cities—it had been _so_ much harder to recover himself. It was no wonder Sherlock wanted so badly to grind those memories beneath his heel.

And to top it all, _now_ he seemed to want to _save_ a memory of Chicago that should be first on the list of the unpleasantness he wanted gone...the moment he'd first slipped, the bitter longing that had choked him, the stabbing pain as the American's words had touched something he'd buried deep inside. _Why on earth should I want that? That shouldn't be something to keep!_

John caught up with him, then; Sherlock saw the fair hair in his peripheral vision as his friend moved to stand quietly beside him. Blinking sightlessly at the sparks of sun on the water, he murmured the only explanation he could manage. "I was someone else, when I was here."

"What?"

His voice felt thick and unwieldy in his throat, and he needed to stop to swallow multiple times before he could finish speaking. "This is the only place I have been twice in the last three years; I had never expected to return. I do not intend to return to most of those places, but being here again, as myself...with you: it's important." He couldn't bring himself to look over.

John's response was soft, and held more understanding than it had any real right to. "Ah."

The two of them stood there together for some time, the chill wind pushing insistently into their faces, silent in contemplation of the river and the foreign city rising up on either side of it.

 _Is it like watching sad movies? I never could quite fathom why people would choose to do that. I'll have to ask John to explain it to me, one day..._ Sighing, he straightened at last and turned towards the street.

"All right, Sherlock?"

He released a deliberate breath and looked over, saving one more image of John's gentle face gazing at him against the backdrop of the sunlit skyline, and filing it away for reference.

"All right."

 

\-- _fin_ \--

 


End file.
